


Devil's Bargain

by Josephine March (ladyspencer)



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-16
Updated: 2003-01-16
Packaged: 2018-11-11 01:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspencer/pseuds/Josephine%20March
Summary: Although couched in terms of childhood traumas re-enacted, this is actually a story of unrequited love.





	Devil's Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
Devil's Bargain

## Devil's Bargain

by Josephine March

Author's website: http://www.fan-archive.net/amadison

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Shirley for the Beta and to JL for the encouragement. 

Story Notes: No spoilers.

* * *

Devil's Bargain 

He opens the balcony door just wide enough to slide half his body out of it and lights a cigarette. He wants one badly, and this is the only place in the new apartment where Fraser will tolerate smoking. It's cold, and he shivers a little as he watches the children from downstairs running and shouting in the interior courtyard. He can see Fraser if he turns his head slightly--pale as death, pacing, agitated. He can also look past Fraser into the immaculate kitchen, where a pile of dirty dishes is stacked in the sink. 

He'd gotten the call Thursday, and as was their custom, he and Fraser had avoided each other until it was time. Fraser's gotten so he can see it coming well in advance, although Kowalski is sure the man still has no real idea as to why it happens. Early on they discussed whether Ray wanted a heads-up. He didn't. The usual two or three days is plenty for him. He glances briefly at his watch, takes a final long, shaky drag on the smoke, butts it carefully on the heel of his boot, and stashes the butt in the outer pocket of his jacket before going in. 

Fraser looks bad--worse than usual, as though he hasn't slept in days. Ray thinks the man's hands might actually be shaking. They avoid each other's eyes, each staking out his own corner of the bright, sparsely-furnished living room. Fraser moves to the balcony doors and pulls the drapes closed, blocking out the bright late-autumn sunshine and leaving the room in twilight. The only sound is the click of the wolf's toenails on the polished wood floor as he heads to the kitchen to drink from his bowl. 

The two men start in unison at the tap on the door. Fraser throws him one last, haunted look as he goes to open it. 

She strides into the room, glancing sharply at Kowalski as if to satisfy herself that all the key players are in place. He knows his part well. He's to go to the bedroom and wait there until required. He can admit to himself that he wouldn't want it any other way. Without a glance at the others, he makes his way down the back hall, his boot heels sounding hollow on the uncarpeted floor. 

* * *

He lounges against the doorframe watching her as she takes off her jacket and rolls up the sleeves of her sweater. Her face, devoid of makeup, is slightly burnished by the brisk wind outside. She smells good and fresh and wholesome, of fresh air mingled with soap and her own scent. Her hair shines with good health. Only her eyes betray her. They're the dead, soulless eyes of a jaded, sinful old woman--for now, at least. As she makes her way toward the sink, the familiar feelings well up in his gut--the fear and the guilt and the other.

He's never been sure exactly how he knows when it's time--only that he watches her, absorbed in doing the dishes, until some signal passes between them. He unbuckles his belt, and the sound seems unaccountably loud in the quiet room. 

"It's time," he says roughly, avoiding her eyes as she turns to face him. She, too, keeps her eyes averted as she slowly pulls her sweater off over her head and lets it fall to the floor. Her jeans are next, and she deals with them as swifly and prosaically as if she were alone, preparing to take a shower. 

He grows hard as he covers the short distance between them and is momentarily, unaccountably, thankful. Sometimes shame, or something very like it, takes over instead. Those are the worst times. He reminds himself again, for the hundredth time, that he can do this much for her; that she's better off with him than with a stranger who might--who might hurt her. 

Not bothering to undress, he shoves down his zipper, drags on the condom he has at the ready, and lifts her up onto the counter, entering her in one swift, sharp stroke. He's gotten over the fear of injuring her; she's always ready for him. He closes his eyes, imagining that they're somewhere else--anywhere else. He imagines that he's actually making love to her. He begins to focus, as he always does, on her soft skin, the sweet smell of her hair, the point where her cheek inevitably has to touch his. He imagines what it would be like to kiss her. 

He hears the low sound she always makes in the back of her throat when she's near--feels her nails dig through the soft material of his shirt. She'll come with a shout and a curse, and she'll be cursing him. His own need to come has become a sweet ache in his belly, and he knows he won't be far behind her. He feels her muscles tighten maddeningly around him and wills himself to take his time, to wait for her. 

But today she deviates from the script. Instead of the shouted venom he hears another voice, small and soft, high and terrified. "Please don't hurt me," she cries as she comes. "I'll be good. I promise!" 

He looks down at her, his own climax lost and forgotten, and finds that her eyes are vacant, uncomprehending, hurt, like those of an injured animal or--or worse. She looks back at him, shaking and still uncomprehending, as he takes her face between his two hands. 

"I'll never hurt you, Meg. I'll never, ever hurt you." He strokes the dark hair gently and she actually lets him. He thinks it might be having some effect. 

She trembles against him for several minutes, allowing him to touch her hair. Then she gives a deep, shuddering sigh as though she's been crying hard. And then she draws back her hand and deals him a stinging slap, marking his pale cheek with the red imprint of her hand and all her fingers. "You don't get to do that," she says. "That's not part of it. Now, let's go." 

* * *

Kowalski has drawn the curtains in the bedroom. For some reason the bright sunshine, the distant voices of the children, are like unwanted messages from another world. His need for another cigarette is palpable. It makes his palms sweat, and his mouth has gone dry. He reminds himself that he'd been able to quit for three and a half years--until this. He paces back and forth, willing himself not to think about what's happening in the other room. He prefers not to know. The voices outside are a distraction, and he has to suppress the urge to open the window and scream at them to shut up, to get away. 

He hears their soft, unshod footfalls in the hallway, and as the door opens, he looks up. Fraser looks bad. A red handprint stands out on his pale cheek. For some unaccountable reason, his eyes--normally a quiet, clear gray--have turned a brilliant blue. 

Kowalski avoids looking at her nakedness, focusing instead on her face, which is as pale as Fraser's. Two spots of feverish color stand out on her cheekbones, and her eyes glitter. "Hurt him," she says, just as she always does. Only today, there's a child's petulent whine in her voice. 

He shus his eyes as he kicks off his boots and sheds his jeans, ignoring her, ignoring the sounds that signal Fraser has knelt on the bed. He's worried about his own state of mind. Normally the thought of Fraser--white skin, smooth muscles, waiting there for him on the bed--normally that's enough. He fumbles for a condom--lubricated, since that's the only concession she'll allow to the realities of life--and gets it on somehow over an erection that threatens to falter. Only then does he open his eyes, 

Fraser's in his usual posture--head on the pillow, eyes shut tight, hands balled into fists. Kowalski can see the other man sucking in deep, ragged breaths--preparing himself. He kneels behind him, feeling his erection turn to steel at the sensation of the hard thighs against his own. 

"Relax," he says softly, knowing it will displease her, not caring. Then he pushes in. 

Fraser's hands seize the bedclothes, but Ray ignores this, focusing instead on the beautiful landscape of his back. He wonders what it would be like to run his tongue gently, slowly down the ridge where the spine runs, lapping at the sweat there, getting him ready, taking his time, pleasuring him. That's how it should be. Imagining that is the only way he can keep this thing together. 

A low sound escapes her, but he keeps his eyes on the white curve of Fraser's back. He knows she's watching, touching herself. He knows they'll probably come at the same instant. He rests his hands on Fraser's hips, pushing a little harder. He loses track of time, and it's the sharp hiss of his own indrawn breath that signals he's about to come, and come, and come. 

* * *

When it's over they separate. Ben, white and silent, disappears to the shower, and Ray hears it running for a long, long time. She goes elsewhere, presumably to get dressed in the living room or the kitchen or wherever. He dresses quickly, not wanting to shower until later--much later. Then he waits until he hears the front door close softly, signaling her departure. Then he leaves the bedroom.

As usual, he finds the bills--four twenties, two tens--on the hall table. Fifty for each of them, he presumes. It's been that way since the beginning, and he once asked Fraser what to do about them. "Get them out of here. Burn them. Just don't make me see them," was the reply. He shoves the bills into his jacket pocket. 

As he lets himself out, he wants desperately to be at home in his own bed, alone and naked between the cool sheets. But he has one last duty to perform. 

The sun is setting, and the air is chilled as he parks in front of a large, gray, gothic building on the other side of town. "Angels' Haven," says the austere brass plaque. Warm yellow light spills from many windows. The parlor, when he is admitted, smells of beeswax. 

The old woman who comes to greet him is austerely dressed in black. She smiles in recognition, for the young man waiting for her has been here before. 

"Afternoon, s'ter," he mumbles like a schoolboy. 

"Good afternoon. What can we do for you today?" 

He reaches into a pocket, just as he always does, and pulls out cash--four twenty-dollar bills and two tens. "For the children," he says, and lays it on the polished table between them. 

She wants to call out her thanks, to tell him what his gift will mean to the children. But he's out the front door before she can say anything, just as he always is. 

* * *

End Devil's Bargain by Josephine March:

Author and story notes above.


End file.
